


disasters and fairy tales

by 015255



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 05:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/015255/pseuds/015255
Summary: A lesson in pretence.





	disasters and fairy tales

**Author's Note:**

  * For [untouchableocean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableocean/gifts).

> gentle warning: this is, and i cannot emphasise this enough, _extremely_ horny but also a bit rough, with little reprieve.
> 
> title is based on Cindy Sherman's series of works under the same name, specifically Untitled #188.

There's something obscene about it, Max thinks, this frivolity laced with a sense of perverse satisfaction: the ribbon loops itself around Charles' neck so perfectly, a dainty collar woven by his own hegemony.

Under any other circumstances, it'd be humiliating for him, perhaps as much as he imagines it is for Charles, but it's hard to muster up any form of shame or embarrassment when he paints such a pretty picture - skirt fanned out on the sheets, Charles' erection poorly concealed by the lacy fringe of his underwear, an ill-fitted bra skewed over the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"Don't talk," Max instructs, pressing a thumb to the erubescent bow of Charles' lips.  _ Don't ruin the illusion _ , is what he doesn't say, because Charles understands the fragility of his façade well enough. The florid coating of lipstick smears easily, staining the skin beneath his lower lip the hue of pomegranate juice, the only colour in his ensemble.

Charles looks disheveled, much to Max's satisfaction; less the  _ demoiselle in distress _ and more the coquette, his eyes unfocused and breathing slow.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he announces.

The quiet whimper Charles lets out is enough to make Max grab him by the chin, pulling him forward with enough force for one of the straps of his bra to slide down his shoulder. "None of that," he insists, and smiles slightly as Charles closes his eyes, exhaling shakily in what Max reads as assent. "Good."

He makes sure Charles is watching as he pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion and unzips his pants. Charles' gaze follows the motion of his hands, mesmerised, and the undeterred attention sends a jolt of pleasure down his spine. "Come here," he motions, and Charles inches closer, hands reaching for Max's cock.

Max wraps both of his hands around Charles' wrists and moves them above his head, pinning him to the bed. "Don't you listen?" he asks, and Charles immediately stills, pliant, his dark eyes and adornments making him look every bit like a doll. 

Succumbing to his urge to smudge the cheap candy tint of Charles' lips further, Max leans in and kisses him, pushing Charles' hands up to curl around the metal rungs of the headboard. "Keep them there," Max says, leaning back to appreciate the lithe arch of Charles' body, tethered silently by his words.

The heady rush of pleasure he gets simply by trailing his fingers down Charles' body tastes like an addiction - warm, as he cups his cheek and teases the ribbon around his neck, intoxicating, in the composite artistry of Charles' capitulation, and visceral, like the instinctual, desperate jerk of Charles' hips as Max smooths over the scratchy lace of the bra and slides his hands up his thighs underneath the skirt to rest on the waistband of his panties. 

"I want you face down," he says, pulling his hand back, and Charles immediately complies, still gripping the headboard like a lifeline, the pleats of his skirt flipped up to reveal the curve of his ass. Max relishes in the smooth glide of the cotton as he pulls Charles' panties down, and reaches to the bedside table to retrieve a bottle of lube, making a quick effort to slick himself up before lining his cock up with Charles' hole.

Max's fingers find purchase buried in the folds of the skirt bunched around Charles' thighs as he enters him, unbearably warm and tight, a sense of yearning burning like candlewax, a hot sting of arousal.

Charles lets out a breathy groan, low and laboured, and Max immediately slaps him across his side. "I told you to be quiet," he hisses, and Charles responds by arching his body more, pushing his ass onto Max further.

"Please," he wavers, hoarse. " _ Please _ , Max, I-"

He's cut off as Max leans forward and claps his hand over his mouth, muffling his fragmented pleas. " _ Shut the fuck up, _ " he says, and he waits to feel the tremble of Charles' mouth beneath his palm before beginning to move.

Charles shakes beneath him, body prostrate, arms outstretched and clasped together around the headboard in some debauched facsimile of a prayer, and Max takes this as an indication to speed up. His thrusts are messy, the force making Charles clench tight around his cock, but he pays it no mind, chasing the exhilaration, the desire coursing through his body.

He feels his orgasm building up and pulls out, ignoring Charles' quiet moan , and lightly slaps the side of Charles' face. "I want to see your face," he directs, and Charles turns himself back over. "God, what a sight you are," he says, and to anyone else he might sound disgusted, but Charles does look gorgeous, in a fucked up kind of way. He's flushed red, painted lips parted slightly, dick pushing against the fabric of his skirt. The bra has slipped down, askew on the heaving plane of his chest, and he's looking at Max with half-lidded eyes. Max leans into the gap between Charles' spread legs and lifts the skirt up, grinding against Charles' cock and stroking them both with a shaky hand. 

Charles comes first, soiling the hem of his skirt with a strangled cry, and Max moves to finish himself off by coming on Charles' face, still beautifully distorted from his orgasm, his release debasing the dollish allure of his features.

"Christ," Max breathes, flopping down beside Charles. "Go have a shower, you're disgusting."

Charles says nothing as he walks towards the bathroom, leaving the lacy scraps of lingerie and the skirt in a pitiful pile next to the bed. Without the instruments to accompany his masquerade of femininity, he just looks sad, red-smeared mouth threaded with an indecipherable expression of fragile longing, or humiliation, or a tinge of bitter wrath. Max is no longer sure he can tell the difference between them.

"Goodnight," he offers, slowly closing his eyes, and receives nothing but the squeak of the shower faucet in return.

**Author's Note:**

> NO RAGRETS


End file.
